Threw my back out, didn’t I. Must’ve been the way I slept, or didn’t. Felt like getting shot in the back by a dream, that kind of pain that makes you remember you’re made of meat. Had a gig up in Gimli. Told Mike in the car, and he says, “Yeah, man, you need a tennis ball.” Like it’s magic. He’s had the same trouble, he says, the kind that makes you feel old and wise and useless all at once. We get there and Mike tells the promoter, Scott, about my spine’s rebellion. Scott, bless him, goes looking for a tennis ball in Sunday Gimli. Like looking for enlightenment in a laundromat. Comes back with some rubber thing from a dollar store or a pet shop, I can’t remember but the act was lovely. I hit the pharmacy, got myself a cocktail of pills and greasy ointments. Smell like I live at my mother’s assisted living residence. Anyway, I made it through both shows. My piano posture didn’t kill me. A miracle. The gigs were beautiful, full of ghosts and good people. Jill the 90s music writer and Billy Brodovsky were there, still the same music of personality. Met new friends, a woman who called me the same flattering things Gord Downie once did (God bless him), and her husband, who said he was Métis and his grandmother floated a piano down the Saskatchewan River. I believed him. Why shouldn’t I? Another couple, and the Bob Dylan talk. He asked if I was related to the Wiseman who played on Blood on the Tracks. I don’t think there was one, but I hope he’s right. Wouldn’t mind having a long-lost cousin in that band. Would explain a few things.